The door to my interior was propped open and a fly buzzed in.

To repossess my thoughts as a car gets repossessed if payment hasn't been made—but what kind of debt is owed, and to whom?

The photos on the wall of his house: dashing then death, like the moment before fainting, the voices on the car radio shifting from the rear to the front speakers, subito fortissimo, then—

syncope

I stood in the loudness of my thoughts like a cut-out superimposed onto the background scene.

Shots of sidebar and awe—

Transparence interests me, wrote Louise Bourgeois in a notebook. I want to be transparent. If people could see through me, they could not help loving me, forgive me.

Within: a chattering of girls who talk & talk, starling murmuration of mathematical chaos across my sky—

Why do you talk so much? What is it that you have to hide?

I pace back and forth like indecision in an old movie.

All of my attention is on a hangnail—I move it to feel the pain—

Thinking off the page: a plane circling over its destination, waiting for a signal to land.

I stand in grass that grows to dune shack roofs, keep to myself—a way of retaining my idea in head, being protective (defensive?), not wanting to adjust the idea to world?

A white truck pulled past the window like a linear wipe, shifting my thoughts to a grainy blankness—

Objects that are near remain out of grasp.

The sun is most beautiful just before it rises, like the unspoken before it reaches the world—

HD: I know, I feel/ the meaning that words hide;/ they are anagrams, cryptograms/ little boxes, conditioned/ to hatch butterflies…

I said I couldn't, and all subsequent text messages were clip clip chopped shrubs, nothing out of order.

I smell it the way I smelled you were hiding something yesterday or a child can smell infection.

Washing lettuce: how the wet leaves sag like the face of propriety when it smiles, no contraction of the m.